Punishment is Mistakes
by KkGgINoU
Summary: But Innocence is downright lethal. An extremely sad little drama that I cooked up on the spur of the moment. K plus for a death, please read at your own risk.


Sherlock Holmes looked upwards towards the sky. What was it about the sky that fascinated? When the chance to look up at the sky arose, anyhow. Maybe it was the infinite blue. Maybe it was the idea of flight. Of freedom. Perhaps the appeal was simply looking at the sky and thinking, 'I'm small'.

Whatever it might have been, John loved the sky. He loved astronomy, too. He certainly criticized Sherlock for carelessness of the solar system, anyhow. And John went off to stargaze, even in the light pollution, any chance he got.

Maybe it was just that sky gazing was a childlike thing to do, and everyone had at least a little bit of a child left in them. The wonder of a child. The curiosity. The newness of life. And the innocence.

Sherlock sighed. Perhaps that was it. The childlike feeling it fostered deep down. Those days could never be recovered. You could hold on to the wonder. You could still be curious. The freshness that every day holds can affect you if you let it. But once you lose innocence, it is gone. Permanently. You can only forget something. You can't un-know it. But the things that steal innocence; you usually remember them.

Sherlock sighed. Innocence. No matter how hard he tried, Sherlock would always see John as innocent. The innocent, naïve little boy caught up in Sherlock's whirlwind of violence, terror, and confusion. And innocence is dangerous. Especially in the form of naivety.

The seventy-year-old stood up from the bench. Memories were painful, useless affairs. John had been laid to rest almost thirty years ago. Mary had moved with their daughter Jesse to America... Was it already twenty years?

Sherlock strode across the lawn. Though his health was surprisingly good for his age and previous... activities, he didn't care much for crime solving anymore. He was content with his little cottage in the countryside. It was a modest little house, built many years ago. It had two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a library/office. And of course the sitting room and kitchen were a must.

But one of the bedrooms was only good for looking at and collecting dust. He didn't use it, and no one else did. He really didn't get many visitors. After all, who would want to visit the crazy old hermit?

He sat down his his chair. Mostly Sherlock Holmes, formerly the World's Only Consulting Detective, stayed around the house. He read his books. He tended his vegetable garden and four chickens. He kept his bees. And he enjoyed his retirement. As much as possible for the last.

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. He could still deduce vaguely, but things were far more muddled now. He was old and out of practice, after all.

Most of Sherlock's head was filled with memories, not deductions like it used to be. For the past ten years he had enjoyed the Simple Life. Before Jesse and Mary moved away, Sherlock tried to teach the little Watson everything he knew (mostly that which upset the six-year-old's mother) in order to leave some sort of legacy. Before that, he solved a few crimes aided by Molly Hooper. Before John died, they had gone on all sorts of adventures. Before John? There was no Before John. Not in his mind.

John Watson was Sherlock's best friend. He proved it when he leaped in front of Sherlock and saved the man from certain death in his last heroic stand. But they shot him.

Sherlock knew who did it, but he took no part in catching the killer. He couldn't bring himself to solve the case that ended John. Greg Lestrade solved the case and apprehended the criminal all without Sherlock's help. And Sherlock was very bitter. He never spoke to Lestrade again. Deep inside, he knew that it wasn't Lestrade's fault. It was his own for not helping. But it was too late for that now. Gregory Lestrade died of a stroke several years earlier. There was no apology for Lestrade, and no forgiveness for Sherlock Holmes.

Truth be known, Sherlock Holmes was very bitter. Bitter about Gregory solving John's murder without him. Bitter about Mary taking Jesse away from his influence. Bitter about Molly ceasing to go on his cases with him. And as for Mycroft? There was a whole list to go along with that one. Sherlock wasn't known for apologies, and the later years of his life were no exception. There was no reconciliation for Greg. No reconciliation for Mary. No reconciliation for Molly. Certainly none for Mycroft.

And perhaps that was why he was so lonely in his little cottage. Why no one came to visit. He scared them all away with his gruff demeanor and tactlessness. He terrorized the mailcarriers. He practiced deducing on the neighbors. And no one ever knocked on his door unless they wanted to hear, "Shut up and go away!".

Sherlock took a few deep breaths to ease his hyperventilating. All of this thinking was getting him riled up.

He liked the solitude. He had his chickens. He had his bees. He was happy in his cottage. And he had one visitor who checked up on him from time to time. And that was Curtis, whom Sherlock considered his very last friend in the whole world.

The nine- year- old visited him every Thursday afternoon at four, and Sherlock would invite him in for tea and they'd talk until the boy's mother came to bring him home for dinner. Rain or shine, Curtis would visit. Whether he had homework from school or not. Whether it would jeopardize his study time or not. And that meant a lot to Sherlock. The very first time Curtis visited, Sherlock hollered, "Shut up and go away!", but Curtis did neither. When Sherlock finally opened the door, the little blonde boy said with a deadpan voice, "you need a friend." And Curtis was Sherlock's only friend.

Sherlock looked at the clock on the wall. Today was Thursday, and it was only a bit to four.

He felt a strange pain in his chest. He had these from time to time, but they'd usually pass within a few minutes. This one was different, though. It seemed to be worse than any of the others. He stood up to go get a paracetamol. That was a mistake. Searing pain shot through his chest, and he fell limply to the floor. His once-nimble hands quivered. He silently cursed himself. The Holmeses had a family history of heart problems. It was genetic, and now Sherlock was sure that he'd inherited his father's death.

He looked up at the clock. Ten minutes to four. If he held on that long, Curtis wouldn't hear his, "Shut up and go away!" And become worried. His head felt foggy.

His vision started to blur. _Just a little bit... A little bit longer._ He closed his eyes to clear the blur, when he opened them again, he couldn't see anything at all. His heart pounded in his chest. The blood roars in his ears. _Please..._

 _ **Eight minutes later...**_

Curtis opened the door to Sherlock's house. It seemed strange that the Telly wasn't on. the door wasn't locked either.

"Mr Holmes?"

He looked around. Sherlock was crumpled on the floor. "Mr. Holmes!" He rushed to the man's side.

"Curtis? Please, Curtis," Sherlock whispered. "Don't forget me." His glazed eyes looked blankly past Curtis to the ceiling.

"I won't. I swear I won't!"

"Molly Hooper. London. Pathologist. Please find her. Tell her I'm sorry."

"Please don't die, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend, Curtis."

"Please don't die, Mr. Holmes. You're my friend."

"I wasn't a good friend to you."

"I forgive you, Mr. Holmes, just please don't die!"

"Too late Curtis. But..." His breath caught. "Thank you." Sherlock's head tipped back.

Curtis wept until his mother came in to find her son sobbing over the lifeless body of the former detective Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sad? Yes.


End file.
